live rock at club woodstock

Yes, yes, another archaeological find from my NaPoWriMo archives.

Back in the bad 80's there was this club on the roof of Far East Plaza which played the hardest rock in town. I can't remember the resident band's name, but it was good, doing covers of Pink Floyd (Another Brick in The Wall was played to death), Scorpions. et al. Come to think of it, in our beer-drenched state, every song that exploded out of the speakers was good. :)







photo by FlyingPete
image from morguefile.com




live rock at club woodstock



i)
the band was gunning through
a pink floyd number
heart-stopping bass
rolling thunder
like a tribe
on the eve of battle
we punched our fists
into the smoky air
and as one uttered the call
another brick in the wall.

ii)
and the maori trooper rose up
from his rickety chair
like a dark hill shaken by a quake
said he gonna take a leak
(we suspected he was looking for trouble)
we parted like he was the plague
counting the seconds
before the first glass breaks.



written          : 22/04/2011
slightly revised : 12/01/2013
*********

---

"All in all you're just another brick in the wall".

-- Pink Floyd, Another Brick in the Wall - Part 2



Shared on Poetry Pantry #132  at Poets United.

Also shared on Poets Rally Week 77 at Hyde Park Poetry.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

tampines leisure park, 7 a.m.

I wrote this for NaPoWriMo 2012, in my other blog, "I write too". One of the better poems I wrote this NaPoWriMo, in my opinion. :)

The park in the title is near to my home, and I usually pass through it on my way to work.




photo by weez
image from morguefile.com




tampines leisure park, 7 a.m.



the rain drops on

         bougainvillea
       and
         ferns

crystals

soon to be
plucked

by

the darting fingers
of the morning

         sun


12/04/2012
**********

---

There are always flowers for those who want to see them.


-- Henri Matisse

---

I am posting this for Poets Rally Week 76.



© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

quarrel

This is a very old poem from my journals. I took it out and edited it a bit. It is one of my favourites, as it never fails to bring back the memories. Even the best of friends, or spouses, have their differences sometimes...




photo by grafixar
image from morguefile.com



quarrel


like a rush
of arctic wind
that scuttles over
a winter pond
dusting hoarfrost on reeds,
we sat, stiff , cold
as strangers

no words, no words pass between us today.
no words, no words she said.



revised 07/12/08
****************

---

Publishing Note :

1. First published on this blog 18th Nov 2009.
2. Submitted for the Movingwords poetry competition 2011
3. Re-post for Poets Rally Week 61, 29th Jan 2012.


© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

red

The Lunar New Year is just around the corner and there's still loads of spring cleaning and shopping to do. I have been very busy at work lately, so I will just post a past effort for this Poets Rally (Week 60)

To the Chinese, red is an auspicious colour. In the New Year, red will be everywhere, in every household, in the clothes we wear, the food, the decorations, flowers, and greeting cards.

To all my readers celebrating the occasion, have a Happy and Prosperous Lunar New Year!





scan by dsnake1




red


Red is the colour of the blood in my veins
is the colour of kinship
is the colour of life.

Red is the colour of the petals of peony
is the colour of luscious lips
is the colour of beauty

Red is the colour of the face of Guan Yu
is the colour of autumn trees
is the colour of loyalty

Red is the colour of memorial tablets on altars
is the colour of candles
is the colour of faith

and red is the colour of my beating heart
is the colour of your blush
when we first held hands
is the colour of our love.



14.02.07
********









© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

for the new year

I wrote this to welcome the new year in 2008, but I guess it is still relevant today. "Welcome" may not be the correct word to describe this poem, "Cynicism" maybe, but that's me sometimes.

I am posting this for Thursday's Poets Rally Week 59.

photo by YunPing
image enhanced by dsnake1

will the new year



will

the new day
be

like
    water
       from
the rainfall
       that
    runs
with the
dead leaves
into
the culverts,
to be
lost,
knowing
they
cannot fight
the
pull of
gravity,

or

like the
sunrays
of the
    new
       morning,
scattering
       off
    tree leaves,
the eaves
of buildings,
    angular
       and sharp,
    filling
every corner
every crevice,
    curious,
       piercing

and free

?


31/12/07
********

To my dear readers, Best Wishes for a Happy, Healthy and Creative 2012!

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

geography lessons

This is something from my school days, and that was eons ago. Although I was in the "Science" class (supposedly to be the better classes) I remembered I did quite well in the exams for geography than the maths and sciences that were the priority. Oh well.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 58.





image by dsnake1



geography lessons



I loved geography lessons
not most of my class.
Our teacher Mr. Newton from Texas
drawled in an accent that's hypnotic
and lured some of the guys to sleep,
not me.
And poor Mr. Newton won't know
what to do with them,
he couldn't throw a chalk at the deadbeats
not like Mr Tan of Physics class.
So I paid attention
and was quite good,
knew that Bikini was a nuked island
and oxbows were not weapons,
while most of them
fidgeted in their chairs, chewed gum
and hoped that Miss Pang
the sexy literature teacher
would walk past,
just some slight distraction.
And we had a guy
we called Chairman Mao
who would debate fervently
with Mr. Newton
the virtues of communism
over the capitalist pigs,
the proletarian will triumph
over the bourgeoisie
and the whole damn class
would groan
and wish for recess.



27/07/06
********

---

After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say "I want to see the manager".

-- William S. Burroughs

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

spectator

This was a poem which I wrote as an entry for the Moving Words poetry competition recently. It did not make it to the trains or the anthology of poems, so here it is.

I quite like this poem, though.. Sigh.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 57.




photo by terranovesca
image from morguefile.com




spectator



silently

the blackbirds hunch
like paper cut-outs
on the edges
of the rooftops
in the smoky haze
drifting in
from the landfills
watching
the last rays
of the sunset
battling the oncoming

night


08/04/10
********







© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011

still

The pain is supposed to have passed, but sometimes at the most unexpected moments, at work, in the bus, the train, it comes back and the world seems to be a little bit more lonely.

I wrote this poem for NaPoWriMo 2009, and is posting it for this Poets' Rally Week 56

photo by chelle

image from morguefile.com



still



still missing her
after all these years
even though
from the bus windows
the same roads
the sidewalks
have changed
trees grown taller
shop-houses demolished
new monoliths rise
from the ashes
or
the dark walls
of the subway tunnels
rumbling by in a flash
a few feet from my face
and i have tired
counting
the number of stations
that have grown
and still
some things
have not
changed.


25/04/09
17/11/11
********









© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

The Light

I wrote this last year in response to a prompt.

When I was a child, my family and I lived in a squatter colony where there was no electricity or running water. This prompt brings me back to those times, and to write about something we all take for granted, the electric light. Or rather, the absence of it..

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 55.




photo by singhajaykr25 
image from morguefile.com



the light



you know,
the light from the single
pressure lamp in our hut
keeps the night at bay
keeps the barking dogs outside
the night

there is no tv, no radio
to distract my school work
except the light will dim
after a while
and dad will pump the lamp every hour
or so

to keep the kerosene flowing
feeding the flames,
and mum joins me at
the only table
mending a dress with what squares of fabric
she has

while dad reads the day's papers
crumpled and smudged
from passing through
many hands
while outside in the village the dogs
still bark.



written 09/02/10
revised 09/09/10
*****************

---

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Poets' Rally Week 53 Perfect Poet Award

Hey, it's really a pleasant surprise to be nominated for this Perfect Poet Award. Thank you, Ava, for this gem.








I am posting a poem from my NaPoWriMo exercise this year, in accepting the award. I hope you will enjoy it. :)




coffeeshop, one morning in march 2011


the cleaner
rubs my table
with a greasy rag.


i do not know
where to rest
my cup of tea.


he looks at me
and smiles.
i thank him.


01/04/2011
**********




© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

ROC '76

This poem is about a military exercise I was involved in, a long time ago.

I am posting this poem for Thursday Poets Rally Week 53.




photo by Athena

image from morguefile.com

ROC '76



In stony silence,
in fits of exhaustion,
we hunched & huddled
in the blood-red mud
& watched the 81s opened up
punishing the hills beyond the ridge.
Not for us the adage of glory and country
but faraway images of home,
a beer, a shower, & a woman to cuddle.

We hunched together
waiting, in a fine drizzle
that coiled around the blue hills,
the final manoeuvre of the battle,
as a haze of gun-smoke and diesel
washed over our tired bodies.
Somewhere to the east,
defiant GPMGs chattered.

As rivulets of rain
flowed down dented helmets
to sweat stained brows,
we struggled with a last smoke.
(have you tried lighting a wet cigarette ?)
We heaved ourselves up
laden with packs and
weapons and fatigue
and coaxed tired limbs
in mud-caked boots
to trudge a final kilometre to base.



09-04-88
revised 05/10/2011
******************









© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

janice

Do you still remember the first dance you had? I still do, though it happened eons ago. Probably because it's the first time, the partner is pretty, and the music in the right groove.

Anyway, I wrote this for NaPoWriMo 2009, and I am posting this for Poets' Rally Week 50. I hope this post can bring back memories of your first dance too...:)

pencil drawing by dsnake1



janice


always
that dance
       it plays
       all over
like a jammed vinyl
       when i hear
       that song
in a store
the train the radio
though it has been
almost
       a lifetime
since
we left
and still
like a bridge
across time
       i see
just the two
of us
though there are others
on the dance floor
       my hand
on your slim waist
your warm body
close to mine
a hint
of heady
perfume

and me
trying very hard
not to step
       on your shoes.



14/04/09
revised 23/06/09
****************

---

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

Carl Sandburg

---

And this is the song that still thrills me...


to janice, wherever you are.


© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Toolshed

When I was younger, while waiting for military service, I followed my father around in his work in the construction industry. This poem is about the few weeks I was working with him.

This poem has appeared in the Jan 2006 issue of QLRS, an on-line literary journal of Singapore. I am re-posting it here for Poets' Rally Week 49.

photo by DuBoix

image from morguefile.com



Toolshed
Construction site, Punggol fields, 1972



It is my job
to fill that soot-blackened kettle
with water,
throw in a handful of tea leaves,
put it over a fire of disused wood
and watch it boil
in the early light blues of Punggol.

My father is in that toolshed
poring over blueprints
of a farm,
briefing his foreman,
as dust and insects floated
in the harsh light
of fluorescent lamps.

Soon my father will amble over,
pour himself a drink from that kettle
into a grimy metal cup.
I will offer him a cigarette
and we will squat there by the wayside
smoking, the sweet wisps of Camels
swirling in the cool morning air.

Then we will go over to the toolshed,
collect our claw hammers, plumb lines,
nails, tape measures,
light up some joss to the earth god,
as Blackie, the mongrel guarding the shed,
darker than Cerebus from Hell,
comes over sniffing our heels.

We haul planks, measure, hammer,
in the uncompromising sun,
sometimes seeking solace
in the shadows of the wooden moulds
jutting out of mud and rock like pruned tree trunks.
The smell of sawn wood clings to us
like a stigma.

When the day is done,
the sun painting streaks of gold and crimson
on the clouds, we dust
ourselves of sawdust and wood shavings,
feed the dog,
and gather at the toolshed,
lingering, for a final smoke in the fading sun,


as did our forebears before us
in America, in Hong Kong
building railroads, harbours,
hunched over camp fires,
drinking tea from grimy cups
swopping stories about home
in Canton half a life away.

Then we pile into
our cars and bikes
for the weary journey home.
The stars are coming out
in that vast bowl of sky,
the cirrus clouds rolling
dark angry strips of floss

in the darkening light
over a plain of wild grass
                over

the exact centre of our universe..


20.10.2005
**********

六 月 初 三







© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Poets' Rally Week 48 Perfect Poet Award

I am so happy to be nominated for this Perfect Poet award. Though I am far from perfect, I will strive to be, so I will grab the award anyway. :)

Thanks, Promising Poets' Poetry Cafe, for all this support and encouragement, and thanks, Ravenblack, for nominating me. :)





And to go with the award, here's a haiku I wrote which is one of my personal favourites...



Rust


missing dad.

sandpapering rust
off his old tool box.




© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

sparrow

i wrote this for NaPoWriMo 2009, and thought I would tweak it a bit later on, but had not yet got around to doing it yet.  Meantime, I am posting this for Poets' Rally Week 48. :)

It has been a hectic week again, and yes, sometimes you need another person to open up your eyes, and heart...

photo by nasirkhan

image from morguefile.com

sparrow




the schoolgirl
hopped onto the bus
like a sparrow,
chirpy, full of energy
her ponytail swinging.
she was maybe
all of six years old
she took the seat
in front of me
smiling
looking at the
blue morning sky
and then she said

it's a beautiful morning

and me
cynical, angry
two days worth of stubble
needed a six year old kid
to make me realised that.

26/04/09
********








© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

for that bowl of rice

Frustration, boiling over. This is what this poem is about. It is an old poem, the page it was written on is yellowed now. But the hard pencil strokes, the angry scrawl, are still there. One of my favourites.

It has been a hectic two weeks in the office, absolutely crazy, and it seems like there is no let up in the coming days. I am posting this for Thursdays Poets Rally Week 47.

And, yeah, why I still need to work. :)




image from imageafter.com



for that bowl of rice


maybe
it was the sum
of all the little
tiring journeys
adding up
or the
proverbial straw


i do not really
mean to
raise my voice

i smile
but
who knows the lead in my heart
i trudge miles
for that bowl of rice
and
not for me alone.


written 13.09.92
revised 16.06.07
=================





©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

a triolet : i thought i hear your voice in the wind

I am posting this poem for Thursday Poets' Rally Week 45.

This is an attempt to write a triolet. I am using a refrain from another poem I wrote, and try to weave that into a love story.

Seems to work if read aloud. :)

pencil sketch by dsnake1





i thought i hear your voice in the wind



i thought i hear your voice in the wind
but it was just me whispering your name.
though i have grown old and tired and bitter
i thought i hear your voice in the wind
through all the years, the static, the babble
and battles, without you, are not the same
i thought i hear your voice in the wind
but it was just me whispering your name.


05.09.07
********




© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011

Poets Rally Week 44 Perfect Poet Award

Thanks, Jingle, for the award!

Before I discovered blogging, I was wondering where I can put my poems on-line. I thought of putting it in a personal website but it was too much work (those were the days of manual coding )Then I found Blogger, and as the old cliche goes...

I am posting this old poem for the award. I wrote this poem, expressing my desire to find a medium to show my works. Before I grow old. :)

photo by chaka at morguefile.com




BIGO


rust biting on hard joints
some say you don't look
a day over forty
lies are sweeter on the ears
damn, my left knee hurts again
i have, how many, five?
old notebooks of
       poems
in fading pencil
to etch to .htm format
       any luck ?
in how many, five, ten years ?
       online

time is short & the water rises.



15-02-2003
**********




©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

before the next day

I wrote this poem for a national (Singapore) poetry competition, the Golden Point Awards 2007. It was the concluding work in a series of 8 poems that I sent for the competition. The theme was about the experiences I encountered while living in the Bukit Merah area, at that time, a gritty and rough neighbourhood.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets' Rally Week 44.

In case you are wondering, no, my collection did not win any prizes. :)

photo by Alvimann at morguefile.com



before the next day



the day is done.

vehicles swept past honking
angrily, red tail lights flaring
in the darkening dusk.

a light rain began to fall,
cold and unfeeling
on lengthening shadows

that glowering street lights
wrung from trees and metal,
smacking them down

on hard concrete
to writhe in jerky throes
in the scattering rain.

we walked in the drizzle
out of the prisons of
the factories, the warehouses,

not really caring,
glad that the day
is over and done,

that it rained in June
that our cigarette tips
still burn red and hot

in the cold rain,
smoke trailing like lost dreams
as the world winded down,

going home to a hot dinner,
to sons and daughters,
to soft moments with lovers,


before the next day catches up again.



22.06.07
********




© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

by the day's light

This is for Thursdays Poets’ Rally Week 43 and is an attempt to write a quatrain. Is it a story of unceasing love or is it a spooky tale?


Here is a song to go with it. Procol Harum's A Whiter Shade Of Pale

photo by bosmanerwin from pixabay




by the day's light



we watch from the breakwater the passing of the night
her hands, her cheeks, pale as alabaster, are deathly cold
soon, through those grey clouds, will pass dawn's crimson light
and like so many nights before, reluctantly,i have to let her go.


20/11/10
********


Sorry about the font size and formatting. I tried to squeeze the words into 4 lines, and may have messed it up.:)



© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011